A Piece of History: Uneven Ground

     It felt eerily familar, save all but the setting.

     Once again, Jonas Foster gazed at the Gift of the Dreaming over silent cups of tea. Once again, her crystalline eyes were downcast as she tried to avoid his gaze.

     "I’m not apologizing," he said sharply. It was instinctive to look around the sunny restaurant, reassuring himself that no one had overheard, that no one was paying attention. It fought with his sense of discretion, coming to a public place for lunch, especially as Dia was eye-catching, and people often turned to watch her go past. The sunny, open room at the Domus Niger Cattus used for breakfast and lunch hours was pleasantly spacious, giving plenty of room between tables, and the abundant potted plants helped with a sense of privacy. Their waiter, a slender man in his late twenties, had introduced himself as Ross, brought their order promptly and after such, had left them alone to enjoy the meal.

     …well…enjoy it as best they could after Jonas had snapped without thinking. Dia had faltered, her fork nearly slipping from her pale fingers, and after that she had merely pushed the fruit about on her plate, her eyes watching the strawberries rather than him.

     Jonas couldn’t help the anger that was welling. Why was it always the same? Why did she insist on taking such offense to what he said? He had snapped his comment about not apologizing a full six minutes ago, and she had still not looked at him.

     "Dia." The death mage couldn’t keep the impatience out of his voice, and his tone roused her as his words had not, bringing her clear, diamond eyes up to meet his dark gaze.

     "Yes Jonas?"

     "Don’t fucking look at me like that. If you’ve got a damn opinion I want to hear it. Yes, I said it, all right? So? You can talk back! Yell at me! Say what you’re thinking! I’m a heartless, bloodthirsty barbarian. Go ahead! I’m even inviting you to do it."

     The Gift of the Dreaming looked at him for a long moment, bright flashes of a sharp, neon green mingling with glimmers of turqouise blue and soft pink in her eyes. Then her gaze dropped once more, and she rearranged her fingers around her cup.

     "I can’t," she whispered, forcing him to lean closer to hear her. "I…can’t do that, Jonas."

     "For the sake of the Wheel, why not?!? It’s easy, Dia! Just open your mouth and say ‘Jonas, you’re an ass.’ Really! Just that simple!"

     Something in her face changed as she looked out the window. They were four stories up, and the sky was a clear December sky, for once. Outside, it was crisp and very cold, cold enough to numb your digits within seconds of stepping outdoors, and the breeze that insisted on playing with the trees along the street chafed and bit at those scurrying for indoor havens. The sky was that unnatural shade of blue that made one wonder if God really was a painter. Dia’s eyes reflected that serene blue as she gazed out at the sky, but when she turned her face back to Jonas, her crystalline eyes reflected a pained yellow.

     "…it hurts," she murmured, so softly he had to lean even closer, frowning as he tried to catch her words. Hurts? Speaking? The death mage felt puzzled. This made no sense.

     "Hurts? To speak? You speak all the time."

     "…to say something like that," Dia nearly whispered, her gaze dropping to her cup. "I…I can’t say that, Jonas. It burns my lips."

     His mouth opened to protest, and some cold, rational part of his mind silenced him. As he sat motionless, the images of the past months of observation flickering throu

gh his mind, realization dawned with a nearly blinding light.

     "…you’re not joking," he said almost wonderingly, gazing at Dia for a long moment. "It actually hurts you to speak negatively."

     A wisp of hair, that strange mother-of-pearl colour, slid across her face as she nodded, and she brushed it back with the delicate fingers he knew were always cold. "It always hurts," she said quietly. "I feel dizzy…and it burns my lips."

     The death mage had to stare at her for long moments, and then actually laughed. "So that’s it? That’s the secret? It’s not that you’re so careful about peoples’ feelings, it’s that it just hurts you!"

     Her eyes pierced him through, and the laughter died on his lips, died as so much had around him. The look in her eyes…the crisp orange in her crystalline gaze…now he felt the pain. He felt his own words tear through his heart, sending a jolt colder than the touch of the Wheel through his very blood, and his face withered into profound sorrow.

     "…Dia, I…"

     She did not speak, only rose slowly. He knew her knees were trembling from the sharp tearing pain of his words, even as he could not control the shaking of his hands. They did not touch, did not speak. Neither gazed upon the other as she walked past him with a gait that was stately, but only to avoid jarring her body. The waiter, so anxious to please, who had been hovering just out of sight, scurried to the table and faltered, watching the Gift of the Dreaming walk to the door and let herself out into the corridor beyond. Confused, Ross Evanoich turned his eyes to Jonas.

     "Sir?" He couldn’t help being hesitant, as the man’s facial expression was blacker than the coldest forest night, and the hand holding his tray wilted a bit.

     Jonas managed to fumble out one of his many credit cards, and let it slip from nerveless digits to the table. Ross, as he retrieved it with a delicate murmur, was ignored. The bird soaring past the window was ignored. No…the death mage was lost in pain for a moment, for the first time…feeling the pain of another as his own.